celebrating iz

 

So today is Isaac's birthday. And also the first day of school.

The Program made a film of Isaac. You can watch it here on You Tube.

what year was this?

Someone who knows cars would have to tell me when the black and white was taken. The color was taken about 15 minutes ago. Yes the place on the right is where I live. No one believed me when I said I bought an old filling station, but here is proof: Cities Service. I heard the place was built as a jail in the late 1800s.

   Bill Dugan found this pic, and according to the guy who posted it, this was the poor side of town. "Who remembers that Thomasville had a tenement or slum area? he wrote. "It was called 'Shanty Town.' The owner, the landlady, was elderly and rented to several (4 or 5) families. I attended school with some of the children. We moved away when I was in the 7th grade and moved back as a Junior in High School and I don't remember what happened to Shanty Town."

  Well, I can tell him. Most of the buildings are gone today, several wiped out by the flood a few years ago.  The church in that picture still exists, though you can no longer see it and it is no longer a church. The stately elm is still there, too. We have no gas station, no store, a wedding chapel, glamping and a cafe that's open Tuesday through Friday. And there's a New Yorker living here now. Fill 'er up! 

blue spring again

Yesterday my new swimming hole partner and I went to Blue Spring. The spring actually comes out of a cave to the right of this frame, so the water is warmer upstream. So clear. And no one there all morning. On the way home I saw this dead tree I've been meaning to take a picture of. I did not see the similarity between the two pictures until just now.

rocky falls again

 

Ozarks swimming holes are something special. The water is cool—but not the icy New England water—clear, and moving pretty fast. But even among the wealth of options Rocky Falls is something special. Novelist Katie Estill and I got there pretty early and had the place practically to ourselves with a front row seat. By afternoon, however, the falls were crowded with frisbee players, dogs, kids jumping off the rocks or sliding down the natural chute, the pool was full of floaties and fishermen and the "beach" was covered with picknickers and suntanners.

  In a related note, I have not been able to get the country ditty Rocky Top out of my mind, for obvious reasons. Here's a '60s version of it. Nice jackets, dudes. 

 

conflicts

 

Chien-Chi is in Ukraine again, presumably en route to Donetsk today, where he will be embedded with the Ukrainian army. Both Ed and I think that labeling yourself may make you a target. So I can spend some time worrying about him.

   And then there's Block Island. Fights broke out on Reggae Night on V-J Day at the notoriously drunken Ballard's bar on the beach (fortunately far from my beach). People get on the ferry, get shitfaced and then head to Ballard's. I once saw  a bride wearing a veil and a white bikini staggering her way to Ballard's across the ferry parking lot, if that gives you any idea of how different this watering hole is from the rest of rather WASPy Block Island. 

   Anyhow, I don't know if you can see these links, but fights began to break out at the bar, here on Insta.  According to my friend Waldyn, who waited three hours to get on the last ferry off island that night, girls were peeing and men were fighting on line. Once on the boat, everyone was still drinking booze and smoking weed (which is legal in RI). Fights broke out on board and Waldyn heard a gunshot. There were razors pulled out and people bleeding. As they neared the harbor in Point Judith, a boat full of Narragansett police pulled up to the ferry and armed policemen started arresting people. Maybe you can see this on Twitter here.  Ambulances and more police met the boat.

  "Were you scared?" I asked Waldyn.

   "Nah," he said. "Esther had my back." Esther is his five-foot wife. "And Emma." Emma is their fierce French bulldog.

 

  

a celebrity at the auto repair shop

I was sitting at Gary's Tire in West Plains, Mo. I was sitting there for three hours, and I began listening to two men talking to one another as they, too, waited for their cars. It turned out that one of them was Eric Lewis, a bluegrass musician of 79 who has been performing for 59 years. He is still performing, and now he sits on a stool and sings, but doesn't play. He uses a walker to get around, and has had many health problems (which he is happy to talk about). His left hand can no longer chord. "People say, why don't I play guitar  the other way around," he says. "My fingers can't even hold a pick." Three months ago he sold his beloved old Martin guitar to his son.

    He is very proud of the career he's had, and of his band, which is currently called the New Kentucky Colonels, after an honorary title he received from the governor of Kentucky. You can listen to some of their music, find out upcoming dates and learn more about Eric on their website here. I'm going to try to make a show before the summer's out.

     I offered to send him these pictures, but his vanity was offended.

    "No," he said, "I look too old."

 

through a lens

 

The class of 1972 was asked to contribute to a reunion book with an emphasis on Vassar and how the college contributed to your life. I did not write about the mescaline (some of the class ahead of me were dropping acid at Timmy Leary's nearby place) or the hedonism. But it's true as far as it goes.

the difference a day makes

 

Two rivers converge just east of Thomasville. The above is looking at the Middle Fork downstream on Friday and Saturday. Same view; different water level. The Middle Fork is the one that sometimes crosses the road at the slab. Due to a drought since Masy, there has not even been enough water to get wet in at the slab. But after five and a half inches of rain in a couple days it was a different matter. Below is looking upstream from the bridge from one day to the next.

The flooding on the Eleven Point River was not as dramatic. It got higher and muddy, but didn't overflow the banks. Eleven years ago it did, as you can see in this video I made. I wasn't around for the one that wiped out my house a few years ago. Anyway, this is what the Eleven Point looked like on Friday and Saturday.

Old Carl, who used to own the house downstream on the left, had to be rescued from the second floor by boat in the big one four? years ago. And yesterday, the slab had a bit of water running over it, but not so much that I couldn't get through.

 

block island news

 

The boat is in the water, and Captain Hannah is at the helm. They are constrained by the tides—too high or too low and they can't get under the bridge that allows egress to the Great Salt Pond. But they are figuring it out.

  They also figured out how to put a big piece of driftwood (found and portaged by Erin and Flip) in Claudia's Surf City as a post in place of the two by fours that were there. Chris and Noah, Hannah's cousin, wrestled it into place.

 

Ta da! And, yes, Block Island is a whole family scene, with Hannah's father, two brothers, many cousins and aunts and uncles there. Lots of them were around for the big family swordfish cookout Johnny and Pam threw. 

 

fishing trip

 

The river was low at Rockbridge, but there was still enough water to catch a few trout. It is a trout farm and trout restaurant, after all.  So what we we had for lunch was, of course, trout! Blackened, broiled, with garlic and peppers, and battered and fried. I should have not have passed up the smoked, but once again, ordered too much even so. Looks like trout for lunch again.

   It was nice to junket around the countryside, sere though most of it was. And nice to see and hear running water.

   The restaurant carried out the outdoors theme.

Frank and Dianne had taken me there before. It wasn't that crowded, but if you want a job they have some openings. Here is a picture of Dianne trying to get out of the picture. If you want me to cut this frame, Dianne, let me know and I will, though I doubt it's going viral on my blog!

And here's a picture of some other lovers, canoodling outside.

 

 

the death of a tree

“You be careful now!”

    This is something people here in the Ozarks say instead of goodbye or see you later. I’ve never been very careful. When someone says that, I remember body surfing full-moon waves in Kauai while tripping on LSD, the drunken drives in the hills of Vermont, the thin cold air on Mt. Everest, the electric eels in Amazonia, the cocaine, the Camel straights, the dangerous place New York City was when I moved there years ago. I am also thinking of the emotional risks I have run, like having a child and falling in love.

    I had to take down a hundred-year-old maple the other day, and it made me very sad. I loved that tree, and I thought it would outlive me. I realized that my outsized grief was because these days friends are starting to fall like trees. It doesn’t seem to matter how careful or how careless they have been. And my landscape is more barren without them.

    “I’m scared shitless,” one of my best friends told me the other day. He has brain cancer and has to think about what they call end-of-life issues. “What should I do?”

     “Spend as much time with the people you love as you can. Hold their hands,” I told him. “It’s ok to cry. Put your financial affairs in order. And indulge yourself in small pleasures.”

     I don’t know whether this was good advice—I’m no death doula. I started thinking about that last bit. What would the indulgences be as physical abilities are eroded? Watching favorite movies, rereading books, listening to music, talking story, enjoying the sun on your skin. (I mean, at this point why worry about skin cancer?) Eating good food, drinking good booze, massages, strippers, patting your dog. Looking at your favorite tree. I hear psychedelics can be good for the dying, too. And, oh yeah, you could take up smoking again!

    Talk about risks: He’s survived the fall of Baghdad, the retaking of Kuwait, snipers in Bosnia, prison in the Dominican Republic, the Mob in New York City, tropical disease in Africa, a broken spine from a run-in with a tank. One of his bullet-riddled armored cars ended up in a museum. But after living through all those risks, it’s cancer that’s going to get him. In the pandemic years we have all been making risk assessments every day. But something is going to get every one of us. Life itself is a risk.

     So now my friend is fearfully awaiting the latest MRI results. He says he is on the verge of tears often. He can’t walk very well or get up the stairs to his shower. To add insult to injury, despite all the isolation and masking, Covid landed him in the hospital yet again. He and his family are investigating assisted living places. The one he’s seen so far, he says, is like a cross between a hospital and a Marriott. Which, given that he’s spent half of his life in hotels as a war correspondent, is not necessarily a bad thing. He would have a whole new audience for his war stories. He could have his dog there, too. His dog that has also lived past his sell-by date.

     Ordinarily, dogs die before people, and people die before trees. Life isn’t always so orderly. I made my tree’s three-foot trunk into two beautiful tables that stand in my yard near where the tree once did. One holds the grill and the other some elephant ears a friend gave me. The tree is having an afterlife. And as for the risk I took in loving it when it was dying, it was worth it.

     So don’t be too careful, now!

 

This photograph is by Chien-Chi Chang, taken of a friend at the country house of the man in question, with, Chien-Chi thinks, the dog of the man in question. It so perfectly hits the notes.

 

take me to the river

I moved here because of the people and the rivers. But I haven't been to a great swimming hole since I got here almost a month ago and went to Rocky Falls with Carly (above) and her son. Plus we've been having a drought. Most rivers are spring fed and have good deep pools here and there. Mostly there, like 45 minutes away (that's really not considered that much of a drive here). I have been unable to get company to go with, which seems important in the backside of beyond. So finally I texted a neighbor for permission to get into his river access. He's not here and said sure. 

   I'm actually surprised my 19-foot-deep well has any water in it, since the water comes from the same river. But so far so good.

The selfie is mostly to annoy Frank, who specifically said he didn't want to see me in a bathing suit. But the water was clear and delicious, if not much more than chest deep. And I thought of this Al Green song.

 

art world

I have mostly stopped buying art the way I used to when I was young and employed and in acquisition mode. So these days my main supplier is Bill Dugan, who sends me art out of the kindness of his heart. I apologize for these pictures, because my copying skills are not of the finest, but you can get the idea from this sunflower print. He also does mail art, like the following card.

This has been attributed to Willie Nelson. Wrongly, it turns out, because he used one line from the song on his 75th birthday. It seems that this is actually an old song from the Ozarks! 

   Dugan also, unsolicited, made me letterhead. I am treasuring the paper at the moment, because I don't want to waste it. I tend to do this with paper, especially special letterhead paper. BTW, he misspells things just to annoy the shit out of me. Thank you, Bill!

 

 

ratatouille casserole

It’s ratatouille season again!

 

I haul out whatever is in the fridge that I get from Mary's farm—yellow squash, zucchini, tomatoes, peppers, onions. Always garlic. If using eggplant (which is great!) I sweat it first. I cut in thick slices, salt it, and let it sweat to lose its bitterness. Takes about a half hour. I dice onions and peppers and garlic and saute just a bit in olive oil. I chunk everything else into same-sized chunks, including the eggplant once I’ve wiped off the salt with paper towels.

Make sure there’s a little oil at the bottom of the casserole dish (you can even use a bread pan, though glass is preferred.) Then layer in the veg, breadcrumbs and cheese. Use whatever kind of cheese you like. I typically use fresh mozzarella and parmesan. I top off with another layer of veg, mozzarella and dust with breadcrumbs and parmesan.  Bake for about 45 minutes at 350 until bubbling and tender to a fork.

 

You can make this on the stove top without the cheese and breadcrumbs. That is the French classic. And as leftovers you can add cheese and bake later if you like. It also makes a decent sandwich!

 

RIP, o tree

The Tree is dead. Long live the Tree! Here is the promised happy ending: Cat and I decided to make the tree stump into outdoor furniture. 

 

And thus the Tree has a second life at the Goose. Not only that, but there is a pile of wood in the corner of the yard that will help keep Virginia's wood stove stoked this winter. This makes me feel better.

 

 

the sad saga

Cat in the catbird seat. He takes the little, lower branches off first, so that the others don't get caught in them on the way down.

 

Don't say you weren't warned! There's a happy ending, but you have to wait for it.